


The Guardian

by GoddessofBirth



Series: guardian!verse [2]
Category: Firefly
Genre: Dark, F/M, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-13
Updated: 2012-05-13
Packaged: 2017-11-05 06:26:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/403376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoddessofBirth/pseuds/GoddessofBirth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She doesn't like him, and he doesn't like her, but neither of them want crew hurt; if this is what it takes to keep that from happening, they'll do what needs to be done.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Guardian

He stalks her through the ship. She's going to need him; need this. He saw it in her eyes over breakfast, in the way they darted around the table, the way they pinpointed on everything that could be used as a weapon, the way her hands twitched in anticipation of grabbing a gun. She wants to hurt someone, and she will.

 

Unless he gives her a target first.

 

He doesn't like her, and she doesn't like him; they prefer to stay on opposite ends of the ship. But neither of them want crew hurt, and if this is what it takes to keep that from happening, then they'll do what needs to be done.

 

He finally finds her, follows a trail thick with the scent of blood and sweat and crazy to the entrance of the spare shuttle. The smell and the location lets him know it's even worse than he thought, and he draws a knife before he slides the door open and locks it behind him.

 

The inside is pitch black, and before his eyes can adjust to the dark he senses a movement to his right and ducks just in time to avoid a flying kick that would have broken his nose. He grabs the foot as it swings past, jerks it, and hears her body slam into the metal of the wall.

 

She doesn't make a sound, he can't even hear any sign of movement – she's that good - but he knows she's there when he feels the white hot pain of a knife slicing across the back of his leg. Despite his best intentions he hisses, and she giggles as she backs away.

 

His night vision finally kicks in, and he can see her shape, blacker than black in the darkness of the shuttle and he grins and makes a sudden movement, feints left. She doesn't follow, too smart for that, and there's the opening he was looking for. The feint becomes real, and his own knife strikes, leaving a thin trail across the front of her shirt.

 

She tsks. 'Sad, little incompetent hero. Can't even manage to draw blood.'

 

He ignores the insult; they both know if he'd wanted to cut her he would have. She backs further into the cavern of the shuttle, disappearing around the divider, and he cautiously follows, his back to the wall, the pain in his leg sharpening his focus. When her arm shoots out, he's ready for it, uses her momentum to jerk her forward into him. His hand tangles in the tear his blade made, so that when she twists her arms and breaks his hold, her shirt rips, exposing her midriff up to the bottom of her breasts.

 

In retribution, she elbows him hard in his stomach, and in the second it takes him to put air back in his lungs, she rends his t-shirt from top to bottom, leaving deep scratch marks from her nails. Patience gone, he strikes back with his fist, clips her right in the jaw. Simon will later learn his flawlessly graceful sister has somehow tripped on the grating of the hold and fallen on her face.

 

The fight is in earnest then, and seven and a half minutes later, both are sporting split lips and his nose is running red; she's finally gotten that kick in. They never lose track of the passage of time, though. Jayne is due for dinner duty in half an hour, so he takes a hopping step back from her (the sting in his leg having retreated to a dull ache) and then, using all his muscle mass, rushes her and pins her to the wall.

 

She spits and claws, but she knows she's ultimately trapped, so the fight turns on a dime, no less violent, but more personal, more focused on the endgame. The rest of her shirt is gone in seconds, his follows after. Pants, skirt, unders; he'd stopped bothering with boots a long time ago, although she still wears hers. She likes the sound they make as they strike his body, and now he feels the soles digging into his back, just another set of bruises among all the others he's gained today. He's in her, then, and she's injuring him almost as much as when they were fighting, using nails and teeth and muscles to cling and writhe. He doesn't care, though, the pain is just another part of the game, and he tastes blood in his mouth when he bites down on the arm resting across his shoulder.

 

Six and one-third minutes later, she almost head butts him as she violently comes and he curses and plunges and follows after her. For a second, neither moves, and then he feels her whole body relax around him. He places her carefully on the floor before feeling his way to the control panel and flipping a switch there.

 

Light floods the shuttle.

 

He leans down and grabs a meticulously folded stack of clothes and a med kit and walks them back to the woman now propped against the wall, legs folded underneath her. River's eyes are clear and focused again, her moment of instability bled out by sheer adrenaline, violence and oxytocin. She's back in herself, no longer debating the best organs to puncture to quickly reunite Zoe with Wash, no longer calculating how quickly Simon would bleed out from a stomach shot.

 

She gives him a half smile when he crouches down and hands her the garments. He flips the lid on the kit and for the next 8 minutes, five seconds, they disinfect, patch and bandage. Her jaw is already black, and she winces as he places an ice pack on it. His leg is quickly stitched; she excels in sewing as much as any other skill.

 

Two minutes further, and they are both dressed and facing each other in the bare space. She nods slightly, her thanks for his role in caging up the leftovers of an unfinished science experiment, and he uses one hand to smooth down her tangled hair. Fragments of clothes are picked up and stuffed in a duffel, and throwing it over his shoulder, Jayne exits the shuttle, heads off to the incinerator and then to his chores. Five minutes, forty-six seconds later, River follows, retreats to her bunk to sleep.

 

Neither of them acknowledge that he hasn't seen a whore in months, even when it's a long time between her spells. Neither of them mentions that he sometimes seeks her when she isn't hiding. To speak it would make it real, and then this would be about each other, and not the crew, and that's simply not a reality either of them want to entertain.

 

So for now, he's her Frankenstein, and she's his patchwork monster and they meet in the laboratory to perform both exorcism and resurrection, to make the monster into a semblance of humanity, into something able to pass undetected for one more day, one more week, one more month. The crew are kept safe for one more stretch of time because he does what Mal pays him for. He stays aware, he keeps watch, he stands guard.

 

But whether he's protecting the crew from her, or her from the crew, is a question he does his best not to think about anymore.

 


End file.
